


Lean On Me

by Elleh



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Kissing Lessons, M/M, Post-Canon, Yahaba as captain, boys being idiots in love, pinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 18:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19090417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleh/pseuds/Elleh
Summary: “How is this being selfish? I honest to god want to punch you sometimes.”Kyoutani smiles. It has a flash of teeth and a tender press on his cheeks. Yahaba’s gaze is glued to it, and when he says, “I know,” Yahaba’s brain finally processes the fact Kyoutani Kentarou hasdimples.Shit, Yahaba needs to get out of here before he does something really stupid. Like punching the wall. Or kissing Kyoutani. Or punching the wallandkissing Kyoutani.Yahaba can’t breathe.Yahaba is Seijo's new captain, he's having a bit of a mental breakdown every now and then and half of his troubles come in the shape of Kyoutani Kentarou. With whom he dreams of, and wants to touch, and maybe even kiss. Yahaba's starting to believe he is: fucked.





	Lean On Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shizu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shizu/gifts).



> This fic is for my person because I don't deserve you but you do deserve all the best things in this world. I'm sorry about that BokuAka. Maybe someday (this has been said for years, but hey, since you won't ever let me forget it, I can hope). I love you, you fucker. I hope you enjoy this. 
> 
> Know where you enter: this is sweet as fucking hell, Yahaba has a crush the size of Saturn and they are both oblivious idiots. Watari is the best mate. I don't even know how this shit got to be this size, but I've decided not to question the powers of the KyouHaba gods.

 

Yahaba is a mess. If anyone were to ask him about it, Yahaba would blame the stress of being captain. It’s the pressure Oikawa’s absence has left behind, you see, that makes Yahaba’s choices outside the court questionable at best, and absolutely catastrophic at worst. But since no one asks, Yahaba stays silent and carries the weight of his shit.

The team lingers on the club room. Today’s practice has been great, the little pieces that make Seijo’s volleyball team finally fitting together. They are synced. They can read each other, understand each other, work together. The team is exhilarated.

Yahaba ought to be, too. He wants to be. The energy of his teammates charges the air, filling it with sweet joy and sweat that smells of victory. They are a proper team. Yahaba should be the one excited the most.

He isn’t, though, although he is trying very hard not to let anyone on it.

“We will surely win Karasuno and Shiratorizawa this year,” Kindaichi says, stars almost flying off his sparkling eyes. “Right, Yahaba-senpai?” Yahaba smiles at him, nods.

The muscles in his neck could be frozen iron, for how hard it is for him to move them. Kindaichi doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too occupied enjoying the atmosphere Yahaba should be rejoicing in.

Watari closes his locker, the one beside Yahaba’s. He’s changed already. He’s even put on that worried expression that has been coming out more and more since Yahaba became captain and, therefore, started to lose his shit.

He is a good captain. Everything else that falls outside that description, though. He isn’t so sure anymore.

“Are you alright?” Watari asks in a whisper. Kindaichi is laughing with Kunimi, the room three degrees warmer just by its sound. “Your eyebags are hideous.”

“Shut up.” Yahaba takes his sweaty shirt off. He’s freezing. There’s a breeze touching every patch of wet skin, forcing a shiver down his spine. “I’m fine. I’m not sleeping much. That’s all.”

Kindaichi and Kunimi leave. And so do some of the new recruits and some of the second years. Kyoutani is still changing on the farthest corner. Yahaba sends a glance on his direction and tears it as fast when his eyes fall on the working muscles of his naked back. A loud high pitched sound shakes his brain. He needs to take a deep breath or he will faint.

“Shigeru?”

Yahaba blinks at Watari. “Yes?”

There’s an intent seriousness on Watari’s eyes. His silences have always been meaningful, but now that Yahaba’s at the end of his stare, his stomach churns. He’s fine, he wants to scream. Fine, fine, _fine_.

Yahaba says nothing. Watari takes in a heavy breath, and says for him, “If something were wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

Kyoutani closes his locker. Yahaba very intently keeps his eyes glued to Watari, even when they want to jump to the opening door.

Kyoutani leaves with a groan. Yahaba pretends he doesn’t hear him.

At Watari, he says, “Of course,” and they both know he’s lying.

Watari is too good a friend to call him on his bullshit, though. He only nods, pats his shoulder and straightens. “Good. See you tomorrow, then.”

Yahaba only manages a _see you tomorrow_ back when Watari is already outside and the door closed. The room falls on him, now silent and empty. Yahaba’s eyes prickle. He stares at the mess of his locker, bites his lip, leans forward. The cold still brushes against his naked chest, and to his dirty clothes, he mutters, “Shit.”

 

*

 

Kyoutani is a pain in the ass. Yahaba already knew, but the constant reminder of how hard it is to work with him sometimes is starting to shape his brain into a giant neon sign that turns on every time he tosses and Kyoutani fucks up.

Like right now. Yahaba takes a long, long second to stare at the mental image of that damn sign, giving way to the enjoyable shit Kyoutani makes Yahaba go through. It’s a fascinating journey, one that ends with Yahaba’s wants eerily shaped in the form of murder and arson.

He doesn’t burn the court down. He doesn’t even move towards the mess that are Kyoutani’s and Kindaichi’s limbs tangled on the floor. He doesn’t even acknowledge the yelling and the growling and the cursing. Somehow Yahaba has ascended and he is now in another dimension where Kyoutani Kentarou is just a nightmare.

But then Kyoutani’s elbow hits Kindaichi right on the thorax, and Yahaba can’t pretend any longer he’s not the one in charge.

“Enough. Kindaichi, go sit for a bit. Catch your breath.” Kindaichi’s eyes gleam with equal amounts of fear and pain. His anger is some notches lower, so he nods and walks away without a word.

Kyoutani’s still on his ass, glaring at the net, the wall, the others. Not even once does he glance up at Yahaba. Hands in his hips, Yahaba decides to ignore the obvious avoidance of his ace. “Kyoutani.” Kyoutani flinches, doesn’t look back. Yahaba will admonish him, remind him to play fair, and practice will continue as normal. That’s the grown-up plan he has, but as soon as he opens his mouth again what comes out is, “What the fuck?”

Kyoutani stops moving, the whole court stops moving. Yahaba’s shaking so much he has to press his fingers to his hip bones to still them. The glares of everyone around them are darts on Yahaba’s skin. Yahaba glues his eyes to Kyoutani’s body, willing himself to stay composed.

But then Kyoutani opens his damn big mouth, and Yahaba has no control over his words.

“That was my toss. He got in the way.”

“That was in no universe your damn toss. What the hell, Kyoutani? I thought we’d gotten over your bullshit!”

Kyoutani jumps to his feet. He is staring at Yahaba, now, and oh boy, is he pissed.

“ _My_ bullshit? You’ve been weird as hell for weeks. Fuck is wrong with you?”

 _You,_  a wicked, devilish voice whispers on Yahaba’s ear. _You are what’s wrong with me_.

The thought is unabashed and unexpected, stealing all and every one of Yahaba’s words. It’s the pressure, the stress, the long sleepless nights, the upcoming tournaments. It’s nothing important, just another way his own brain has found to torture him. Of course Kyoutani amounts half of Yahaba’s problems. He’s their ace and Yahaba can barely control him. Even when Kyoutani has been showing restraint and consideration. Even when Kyoutani has been a proper senpai, has listened to Yahaba’s commands, has helped and has worked hard and has been, if not an excellent teammate, his best self.

Yahaba wants to turn around and flee, but how do you run away from yourself? There’s lightness in his head, a black hole in his chest. For a second, it feels as if Kyoutani has hit him and not Kindaichi. Yahaba tries to take in a breath and fails. There’s a loud sound in his brain, an evil laugh, maybe Yahaba’s sanity choking to death. He wants to move, but when he tries to step away his knees buckle.

The last thing he sees before he faints is Kyoutani reaching for him, and then nothing else.

 

*

 

There’s a lot of yelling, afterward. Primarily from his mom, who rants about him not eating well and not sleeping and not taking any vitamins, and how do you think this makes me feel, Shigeru, to see you tiring yourself to death? I can’t be watching you every minute of every day. Learn to take care of yourself!

Which is followed by a long, long rant from Watari, of all people. Yahaba sits in front of him, blanket on his shoulders, and nods and listens and nods again. Watari has too close a relationship with Yahaba’s mom, so he shouldn’t be surprised when Watari ends his speech with a, “I’m gonna make sure you stay healthy and well. I’ve already talked to your mom. We made a plan.”

Yahaba tries to feel guilty, but he can’t. He’s not even that bothered by the fact they are negating Yahaba’s ability to make his own choices. His body is heavy, numb. He doesn’t remember anything from the second his knees gave in, but it’s impossible to forget that little annoying voice in his head, spilling unwanted secrets.

Kyoutani fills his mind half of the time Yahaba is awake. It’s driving him insane.

Because it’s nonsense. He doesn’t like Kyoutani in any of his versions. He keeps up with him because they are teammates and because Kyoutani is a fundamental part of their team, now, that’s all. So what if Yahaba’s eyes have darted towards him once or twice while they change? It means nothing. It is nothing.

Yahaba turns that into a mental mantra while Watari explains what the plan entitles (Watari will keep Yahaba from overworking and over-practicing, mom will make sure he eats and sleeps) so it takes him a second to catch with what he’s saying.

“Wait,” he says, heart beating fast enough to hear. “What did you just say?” It’s Yahaba’s brain, playing tricks again. He heard wrong. Watari didn’t just say—

“Kyoutani offered to help.”

Yahaba’s mind is a blank page, the exact brightness of a bomb aftermath.

“Help?” He sounds like a dumb-struck idiot.

Watari shrugs. “He felt guilty, I guess. You fainted _because_ you were reprimanding him.”

“Of course not. I was—“

“I know that. We all know that. Kyoutani still wants to help. Why not let him?” There’s something weird on how Watari asks that, on the arch of his raised eyebrow. Yahaba bites down his words. Fighting Watari won’t accomplish shit. “Look. It’s only doing homework after school and stuff like that. It will help you get along better.”

“You want to put Kyoutani as my chaperone. Why would that make me get along better with him?”

Watari is deadly serious when he says, “Because you are our captain and he is our ace.”

Yahaba’s inner voice is way too happy with this arrangement for Yahaba to comply right away. They change the topic, drink their tea and end up playing video-games. Watari stays until dinner time without mentioning Kyoutani again, but Yahaba’s brain is circling his name enough for both of them.

Of course he will say yes. Because he has worried Watari and his mom enough at is, and because it’s the best way to finally smoothen the sharp edges left on the team. There’s no hidden reason beyond those two.

When that night Yahaba’s dreams are filled with protector dogs with a really bad dye job and a worse attitude, Yahaba pretends it’s just a good omen. For the team, that is. Only for the team.

 

 

*

 

The first weeks of this stupid arrangement almost take Yahaba to his grave. Some heart attacks occur, as well as some aneurysms. Several pens have died under Yahaba Shigeru’s rage in place of the object of his murderous thoughts. Yahaba has gained a couple of white hairs. If nothing else, this is what turns up his killing rampage to its maximum potential.

Kyoutani sucks at math but excels at English. He has trouble remembering kanji but can quote poetry from centuries ago without breaking a sweat. If Yahaba pushes too hard, he kicks back. If Yahaba pushes too little, he growls back. Finding the middle point in which he can work with Kyoutani without fear of losing his head to Kyoutani’s claws or his freedom to prison has been a long, arduous journey.

Journey that he’s still going through. Because although Yahaba has regained his health, is eating properly, sleeping properly, not overworking more than the rest, he’s still meeting Kyoutani three times a week. As if having Watari check on him every other weekend wasn’t enough. As if having his mom shove dish after dish down his throat wasn’t enough.

Kyoutani fills an awful amount of Yahaba’s hours. Yahaba hasn’t figured out yet what he feels about that.

“That’s the wrong kanji,” Yahaba says for the thousandth time. He’s been saying that same sentence almost every three minutes for the past hour. He’s so tired of his own voice, the words have lost all of their meaning. “You keep writing the radicals wrong. How the hell did you learn this?”

Kyoutani groans in answer, crosses the kanji out, writes it again, all of it without tearing his gaze from his notebook. They are at Yahaba’s room because after so many days spent on cafes and diners and whatnot Yahaba’s wallet is a sad, dusty emptiness.

Kyoutani taps on the new kanji. Yahaba bites down a laugh at his huffiness. “That’s the one. Well done, well done.”

Yahaba does laugh when Kyoutani slaps his hand away after petting him. There’s a soft blush on his cheeks, but with him it’s hard to tell if it’s from anger, embarrassment or just plain teenage warmth.

Leaning back on his hands, Yahaba stares at him and pretends the shakiness of his stomach is just hunger. Kyoutani gets flustered an awful lot every time Yahaba corrects one of his mistakes, but at least he doesn’t stand and run away anymore. It took Yahaba quite a while to figure out Kyoutani was expecting Yahaba to mock him for every wrong answer.

It might have softened something in Yahaba’s chest, but as with everything else, Yahaba is doing a great job of ignoring it.

“Come on. You still have a page to fill.”

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” Kyoutani grumbles.

“We had a free period today. I did my homework then.”

The pen isn’t moving, nor is Kyoutani’s hand. He frowns, deep and heavy, and when Yahaba’s about to ask him what’s wrong, he stares up. Yahaba’s chest turns, just a bit. Nothing to worry about, just Yahaba going weak on the knees every time Kyoutani’s eyes fall on him. (Worrying about something would imply Yahaba _acknowledges_ said something).

“What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me not to come, then?” There’s no bite to his question. He looks curious and wary.

Yahaba swallows. He wants to stare away, but finds it impossible. How can he stare away when Kyoutani’s eyes burn Yahaba with enough intensity to turn their notebooks to ashes.

“Because we’ve been doing this for weeks,” Yahaba answers, reluctantly, “and because I like helping you with your homework, and becausewearefriends.”

If Kyoutani furrows his brow a bit more, his muscles will ache. “What was that?”

“Nothing. I said nothing. Go back to your kanjis. I don’t want to spend all night here.”

There’s a long second of Kyoutani frowning at him, not entirely content with Yahaba’s stupid behavior (Yahaba isn’t, either). He finally decides his homework is more urgent than tearing the truth out of Yahaba’s unwilling lips, and turns his attention back to the stupid kanjis. Yahaba breathes, relieved.

If there’s a tightness on his lungs, who cares. He’ll die before acknowledging ever again what he’s just said.

 

*

 

They win their first match, and lose the second. They are both good schools, but none of them are objectively better than Seijoh.

They aren’t better than the _former_ Seijoh. Apparently, they are way better than the current one. Yahaba spends the drive back nipping his lower lip and pondering over every little mistake he’s made as a setter, as a captain, as a teammate.

The loss is a tangible thing on the bus. Yahaba could reach forward and grab it, squeeze it until it became a perfect physical mirror of his failure. He knows, somewhere deep in his mind, that a team is a sum of all its players. They tried their best, and their best wasn’t enough.

Yahaba can’t help but think if he’d been a better leader, they’d have come back home in victorious cheers instead.

The meeting is as gloomy as expected. No one cries, or talks. The couches go over the matches, tell them to rest and take the weekend to gather strength. _Next week we’ll start again, and the next time, we’ll win_. Yahaba wishes he could promise such a thing. He wishes he could believe it.

They scatter fast enough, once they leave the court. Yahaba takes his time in the club room. His limbs move weird, slower than usual. If someone were to tell Yahaba he’s underwater, he’d believe them. The way his lungs feel full and weighted would fit that, too.

He closes his locker. There’s a sigh, maybe a frustrated sob, caught in his throat. He wants to punch the wall and feel the skin on his hand break.

“Wouldn’t recommend it.”

Yahaba startles, turns around fast enough to hit Kyoutani’s shoulder with his bag. There’s a huge frown on Kyoutani’s face, as usual. He’s staring at Yahaba with a mix of pity and worry.

“What are you doing here?”

“Thought you’d behave like an idiot, given that you think you carry all the blame.”

Yahaba flinches at that. Leave it to Kyoutani to develop a proper sense of empathy right when it less benefits Yahaba’s mental state.

“I’m not doing anything. Just leave.”

“Really? ‘Cause the way you were staring at the wall, it kinda looked like you wanted to punch it.”

Maybe punching Kyoutani instead will shut him up, as well as quiet the loud singing voice of his frustration.

Kyoutani sneers. “I know that face. You can punch me, if you want. I’ll let you hit me once.”

A blink. Yahaba’s breathing is a hissing sound coming in and out of his mouth. “Why would you let me? This has nothing to do with you.”

Kyoutani leans on the locker, his eyes darting to the side. His shoulders are tense when he shrugs. “I fucked up, too. I got too excited, let myself be blocked. If you deserve to break your hand like a fucking idiot, then I deserve to be punched.”

God, Kyoutani does get on his nerves. “That’s stupid. I am the captain. I am the setter that tossed you wrong. _I_ take the blame. Fuck off.”

But Kyoutani doesn’t fuck off. In fact, he moves closer, grabbing Yahaba’s closed hand, loosening his fingers. There are semicircles in his palm, furiously red. Kyoutani’s thumb caresses over them, easing the pain away, if just a bit. Yahaba’s heart is hammering against his ribs.

“You’re the captain, but we are all a team. Don’t be a fucking selfish prick.”

“How is this being selfish? I honest to god want to punch you sometimes.”

Kyoutani smiles. It has a flash of teeth and a tender press on his cheeks. Yahaba’s gaze is glued to it, and when he says, “I know,” Yahaba’s brain finally processes the fact Kyoutani Kentarou has _dimples_.

Shit, Yahaba needs to get out of here before he does something really stupid. Like punching the wall. Or kissing Kyoutani. Or punching the wall  _and_ kissing Kyoutani.

Yahaba can’t breathe.

“Let’s go,” Kyoutani says, oblivious to Yahaba’s inner panic attack. “Treat me to ramen.”

That kicks the panic some steps back. “Treat you? Why the hell would I do that?”

“Penitence.”

It feels like it, if just because Yahaba can’t take out of his mind how cute Kyoutani looks when he smiles, and how hard it is to ignore the low warmth it builds in his stomach every time he thinks of kissing him when he does.

 

*

 

The thoughts of kissing Kyoutani wave over him at the most inconvenient of times, now that the door is open. Yahaba tries to close it, he tries with everything he can think of, but it is to no avail. It’s as if the second Yahaba’s brain provided him with the idea of kissing Kyoutani, all of Yahaba’s system rebooted. His nerves, his skin, his eyes. If Kyoutani’s near, Yahaba’s body starts to sing, attuned to his frequency. He’s overwhelmingly aware of Kyoutani’s presence, of his movements, of his breaths.

It improves their plays, if nothing else. Yahaba finds little consolation on that, especially because the more brittle Yahaba’s nerves get, the steadier Kyoutani becomes. Yahaba’s starting to believe Kyoutani is absorbing his mental sanity and using it to turn into a proper, head-leveled ace.

He hates it, Yahaba tells himself, while his chest expands and fills with such pride he sometimes fears he will choke on it.

There are more smiles, too. That does something entirely different to Yahaba’s insides, to his lungs, to his belly. The second Yahaba and Kyoutani found their perfect balance, the whole team fell into place in a way Yahaba could have never imagined. They joke with Kyoutani, now, even the new recruits, even when half the words they share with Kyoutani are tainted by residual fear. Those damn dimples are now on display at least once a day. Yahaba’s starting to lose the little mind he has left.

So Yahaba needed to realize he wants to smack his mouth on Kyoutani’s and kiss the shit out of him for the team to work, _properly_ work to its full potential. What a joy. Knowing there’s a buzzing layer of horniness under his best plays shadows the bliss of this new-found steady ground they stand at. Or it would if Yahaba had enough time to wallow in such pitiful thoughts.

He doesn’t. Yahaba has scheduled his life so there’s no free time for thoughts. He goes to practice, then to class, back to practice, to study with Kyoutani or to ramen with Kyoutani or to whatever-with Kyoutani, goes back home, studies more, sleeps little to nothing and repeats. Kyoutani keeps filling his days to the brims. Yahaba doesn’t know how to stop it, or how to care to do so.

There are so many little things he notices, now. It’s been almost three weeks since that lost game. Three weeks in which Yahaba dreams of wet kisses and dry moans, in which Yahaba leans a bit too close to Kyoutani when he corrects his kanjis and praises his writing. Kyoutani’s smile is different when it’s embarrassed and pleased. It starts with a press of lips and grows, shyly, until the tips of his mouth are spread and up in his cheeks. The dimples show, but only just so. The gleam in his eyes is what Yahaba loves the most.

Other things come to light since Yahaba is watching so intently as to catch the seams of the world, of Kyoutani’s world. Kyoutani, who stands tense and ready for a fight even when he’s relaxed, leans into Yahaba’s touch like a craving man. It’s so subtle it takes Yahaba being overwhelmingly aware of him to notice. But once he does, well. They are both in for the game.

Yahaba’s pretty sure Kyoutani doesn’t even realize it, himself. Such an honest, simple reaction to a soft brush or a reassuring pat. There are dreams of kisses, but Yahaba can’t put his hopes in his hands when he searches for Kyoutani’s skin. He just wants to give to Kyoutani. He just wants for Kyoutani to know this is for him, that he can rest against Yahaba’s hand or Yahaba’s shoulder or even Yahaba’s chest and Yahaba will give him the world and ask for nothing in return.

He wants his hands to say all of this in their wordless power. He hopes they do. He hopes Kyoutani understands, and the more Kyoutani leans in his touch, the longer he presses on it, the higher Yahaba’s hopes climb. The fall will be agonizing, once it comes. But for now, Yahaba enjoys the delights of being smitten with a rabid dog gone soft.

“It’s really good,” Yahaba tells him a Friday evening, after reading Kyoutani’s essay for English class. Kyoutani is sitting on his left, legs crossed under the table, hands on top of his ankles as if he were trying to hold his urge to stand and flee. He’s so tense the muscles of his shoulders are about to burst his skin open. Yahaba stares at their lines and dreams of kissing them tender. “You have a way with words, Kyoutani.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m praising you, jackass. At least thank me.”

That puts a smile on Kyoutani’s lips, if small and insecure. Yahaba’s toes curl. He wants to lean forward and press his lips to Kyoutani’s, his forehead to Kyoutani’s, his whole body to Kyoutani’s. Instead, he puts the paper down on the table and, as indifferent as he can pretend to be, he puts his palm against Kyoutani’s head and pats him, ruffles his short hair. Kyoutani glares at him, but there’s a telling warmth in his nose and his ears.

The rush of excitement is exhilarating. Yahaba could do anything right now, that much adrenaline is pumping in his veins.

“I’m sure you’ll get top score on this.”

Yahaba’s hand is still on his head, Kyoutani almost snuggling against his palm. Yahaba will throw himself at Kyoutani if he doesn’t stop soon. He wants to say, _Stop this, stop leaning on me, never stop leaning on me. Fuck, the things I want from you_. He wants to say, _How have we gotten here? I hated you, I hated you and now I dream of kissing you every night and dread not waking up with you every morning._ He wants to fall forward and rest his head on Kyoutani’s lap, whisper, _Please, let me recharge. Fucking realize already how I feel before I lose my mind._ He wants to stand up and run away from this room, now filled with Kyoutani’s smell and Kyoutani’s blushes and those goddamn smiles he never shows anyone else, not even in the court.

Kyoutani says, “I need to ask something else.” And Yahaba takes his hand away back to his own body and smiles, hiding the shake of his limbs at Kyoutani’s avoiding gaze.

“What is it? You failed your kanjis again, didn’t you.”

“Fuck off. It’s not that. I’ve— That has been going well since you—” Kyoutani grimaces. Yahaba’s heart flutters, happy and wary. “Anyway. I—”

Nothing follows after that, except for a heavy crimson crawling up Kyoutani’s neck, to his ears and his nose. He has the most adorable blushes Yahaba has ever seen.

“What is it?” Thank god his voice is steady and bored. The way his heart is beating out of his chest is starting to worry him. “Come on, Kyoutani. It’s not that hard. I know you can do it.”

“Fuck you.” Kyoutani licks his lips. Yahaba makes a strangled sound that’s eerily similar to that of a dying animal. “Whatever. Forget it. This is stupid.”

“You are acting pretty stupidly indeed.”

Kyoutani growls. His eyes are glued to the tatami at his feet, his hands gripping his ankles so hard there are patches of white on his legs where the blood can’t flow. Yahaba thinks of smacking him out of his nonsense, but he’s not sure he will be able to take his hand away if he touches him again.

“Okay, so. You’ve helped me a lot.”

“Right.”

Another grimace. His ears are so red they might be burning. “And you— well, you have a lot of knowledge.”

Yahaba frowns. “Sure.”

“I mean. I— Well, I want— heard— I—”

“Goddammit, Kyoutani, spit it out! You’re getting on my fucking nerves!”

“Teach me how to kiss?” Kyoutani says in a rush, eating the spaces between the words. He’s red to his hairline, looking wide-eyed to the floor with obvious, regretting panic. Yahaba’s words have been knocked out of his system. He’s pretty sure his expression is a mirror of Kyoutani’s, if nothing else because he can’t believe what he has just heard.

“Did you just—”

“Forget it! It was a bad idea. I’m going.”

Kyoutani’s already on his feet, halfway to the door. Yahaba, in pure desperation, throws himself at him, grabs his ankles. Kyoutani doesn’t fall flat on his face thanks to some lucky miracle, but he does turn around and throws darts of fury at Yahaba, splattered on the floor, still holding his ankles.

“Wait a goddamn second, will you? I thought we’d gotten over you running away from here every time you get embarrassed!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fine, but come back and sit. Fuck, man, give me a second to process.”

“No need to process shit. It was a mistake. Let me go.”

“Kyoutani.”

Kyoutani stills. He doesn’t whimper, but Yahaba hears the sound anyway. Yahaba has never used his serious tone, the one that dances between threat, and order, and promising pain if ignored, with him. Kyoutani has heard it before, of course, but never directed at him, and that might be why it works. Kyoutani’s teeth sink in his lower lip. He shakes Yahaba’s hands off his skin, steps around, sits on Yahaba’s bed and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s so bent forward his cheeks brush his knees.

At the sight of Kyoutani’s surrender, Yahaba lets out all the air in his lungs. He can breathe, now, and think, if mentally screaming in unbelievable, joyous excitement can be called thinking. He stares at Kyoutani’s awfully dyed hair, closes his hands into fists. He wants to pet him, let his fingers roam until they find Kyoutani’s cheek, push his face upwards and into his. He wants to sit beside him on the bed and hug the tightness away from his shoulders.

“Kyoutani.” Kyoutani groans, his face falls forward. His temples rest between his knees, and Yahaba stays put although he wants to crawl beside him and rest his face against his. “You’re behaving like an idiot.”

“Shut up.”

“Honestly.” He’s acting so mighty. His tone says, _I couldn’t care less, Kyoutani. You could ask me to do any amount of things to you and I would react as if it didn’t mean a thing_. In truth, Yahaba’s mind is an overworking mess. He’s having troubles quieting down the maddening speed of his heart. “What has brought this up? I never thought you cared about this stuff.”

It occurs to Yahaba, then. It was the excitement’s fault, his own arrogance. Yahaba has taught Kyoutani so many things, so he could use them somewhere else. Kanjis, math. Kissing.

It’s a slap that brings him back to reality. This is the truth: Kyoutani trusts Yahaba, nuzzles against his skin, but he wants to learn how to kiss so he can go and kiss someone else properly.

The fall is, indeed, quite impressive in how painful it truly is, being a proverbial fall and all. Yahaba has no clue how the hell he manages to smile. He’s sure it looks sharp and unwelcome. It cuts his own skin when he puts it on. Kyoutani has yet to stare back at him.

“Come on. I’ll teach you how to kiss if you tell me why you want to.”

That makes Kyoutani lean back a bit, look at Yahaba. His muscles move under his shirt, taut, reading the skin as if Yahaba were about to hit him.

“You will?” he asks, small and unsure. Yahaba inches closer. “Really?”

“It’s what I said. But first, you have to tell me why.”

The blush is there in a second, covering his skin, overwhelmingly soft and daunting. The dreams of kisses and nights tangled together are crumbling, ashes now at Yahaba’s feet. He will kiss him anyway, just the once. He will hurt himself so bad the recovery will take years, but Yahaba has never backed away from a challenge. He will wear the scar with pride, once it heals.

If it heals. Yahaba has no idea how one gets over the first boy they dream of kissing and caring for. He hopes there’s a way. It will be a pretty fucked up future if he carries these goddamn feelings in his chest for the rest of his life.

He stays on the floor, resting against the bed. Kyoutani’s watching the window, the floor, Yahaba’s shelf. His leg brushes Yahaba’s arm, and tenses when Yahaba puts his elbow on his thigh and his weight on him. “I thought you’d learned to speak your mind already.”

“I have,” Kyoutani groans.

“Could have fooled me.”

“Fuck—”

“—me. Yes, you’ve said it several times. Do you want me to kiss you, Kyoutani?” Kyoutani turns such a shade of red Yahaba can feel the heat of it under the fabric of Kyoutani’s pants. “Do you want me to _teach_ you how to kiss?” Yahaba amends, trying to ease the knot in his throat.

“It was a stupid thing to say.”

“It wasn’t, if there’s a reason why you want that.”

Kyoutani looks at him, then. There’s a plea in his eyes, a bruise in his swollen lips. Yahaba swallows. He wishes Kyoutani wanted Yahaba’s kisses just because they are Yahaba’s, and not practice.

“I want to learn,” Kyoutani confesses, as simple as that. I want to learn and we have built such a fragile, solid trust between us I could ask this of you without fear of your anger or your disdain, but you could not ask it of me because we’d both crumble under your feelings.

“Okay. I guess there’s someone you like, then?” Yahaba asks it, but really, what other reason could there be.

“Ugh—”

“Fine.” Fuck it, Yahaba can’t hear him describe the girl he likes when he’s here dying of what might, possibly, surely be a broken heart. “Well. First of all, take that gloomy expression off your face. I’m not kissing a goddamn rabid dog.”

“Fuck off, Yahaba. You don’t need to be such a shit all the time.”

“Wrong.” Yahaba goes to his knees, forces Kyoutani’s to open to make space for him. Kyoutani is red all over. “It’s in my DNA to be a shit. Especially to you.”

“Fucking pain in the ass.”

“Yes.”

Yahaba’s hands rest on Kyoutani’s thighs, now, Kyoutani’s on the bed, digging and digging and digging. They are watching each other, which is good, except because the blush painting Kyoutani’s face is making Yahaba’s heart do some really stupid things, like caring and worrying about the wrongness of this. He wants to keep being a little shit, but fuck, he feels too much for the idiot to keep pretending.

“Are you sure you want to do this with me? Learning to kiss with the person you like isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

Kyoutani shakes his head. “Please. I’m not—” And he says nothing else, but Yahaba has spent weeks learning Kyoutani’s little quirks and he believes he understands. The fear of laughs, the way he braces himself every time Yahaba is going over his homework or reading his papers or talking about their plays. Yahaba would burn the world down just to protect Kyoutani, he burns now with the need to keep him safe and sound.

“Okay. Well, then. I’m gonna lead since you have no clue how to do it.” Kyoutani growls as he’s supposed to, and Yahaba manages a smile. “If there’s something you don’t like or if you’re uncomfortable—”

“Yes, yes, whatever.”

Yahaba nods, takes in a deep breath. Kyoutani is so close. His warmth, his smell, the gleam of worry and expectation in his eyes. Yahaba leans forward, slow, slow, never taking his gaze off Kyoutani’s, making sure this is right, this is what he wants even when Kyoutani remains totally oblivious of Yahaba’s feelings for him and the fact this will probably obliterate him.

It’s fine. Yahaba has gotten over worst wounds than this.

He’s so close now his eyes can’t stay away from Kyoutani’s lips, still wet, slightly open. Waiting. Yahaba shoots a last glare up to where Kyoutani’s eyes are, wide open, and then he closes the distance and they are kissing. Yahaba’s fingers claw on Kyoutani’s thighs, trying to hold himself. Their breaths shake in sync, their lips locked and unmoving. Yahaba needs a second to remember he’s the teacher, here. He’s the one who’s supposed to _do_ something.

Yahaba kisses Kyoutani’s trembling lips again, and again, and again. He nips at them, moves his legs so he can reach better, changes the angle of his head and brushes Kyoutani’s nose with his. Kyoutani’s so tense under his touch he will snap in half soon if he doesn’t relax.

In his mouth, Yahaba mutters, “Kyoutani, if you don’t want this, fucking say so.”

“I do,” he mumbles, hot breath against hot breath. “I just— What the fuck should I do?”

“Kiss me back, for a starter. Don’t stay there like a goddamn statue.”

Kyoutani nods, their noses bump. Yahaba’s heart is the size of a comet and it will fly off his chest and into Kyoutani’s unprotected one any moment now. His lips feel thrice their normal size, so aware is he of them.

“I’m gonna kiss you again.”

“Okay.”

“Do what I do.”

“Fine.”

Kyoutani answers Yahaba’s kisses in equal measure, although his legs are tense under Yahaba’s palms, although his breathing is so loud it fills every corner of the room. Yahaba leans into it, so much so he forgets this should be a pretense and not a show of his own want. Before he remembers Kyoutani wants to practice for another, Yahaba’s hands are no longer on Kyoutani’s thighs but on his waist, holding him closer. Yahaba’s mouth is not slow and showing, it’s now demanding and hungry, biting down, licking every patch he can find. And the thing is, Kyoutani is doing exactly the same. His hands aren’t on the bed anymore. They are on Yahaba’s nape, holding him in place. They claw in his hair, nails scraping, and Yahaba moans because how could he not, and the sound opens his mouth and so does Kyoutani’s because he trusts Yahaba to teach him how to kiss, not to kiss him dumb.

Yahaba kisses him dumb anyway. Self-control is a fantasy he has thrown out the window the second he said yes to this madness. Kyoutani tenses at the first touch of Yahaba’s tongue, as if he weren’t expecting it. Yahaba has a second to worry before the hold on his head gets painfully tight, and Yahaba is tightly held against a chest he’s dreamt about for weeks and he’s being thoroughly kissed. There it goes, the master surpassed by his pupil. Kyoutani kisses with the same fierce intent he spikes with to win. Yahaba feels like a ball spinning out of control around the court. He can’t find the will to care.

Kyoutani takes charge fast enough. He commands Yahaba’s mouth with his own, controls Yahaba’s position with his hands, now a blanket on Yahaba’s cheeks and jaw. The fleeting thought Kyoutani is kissing and feeling Yahaba kiss him through his palms crosses his mind. He’s in a cloud, so high he has barely any oxygen to breathe in. Fuck, the aftermath is going to be awful.

They kiss for so long Yahaba has forgotten the reason why they started, and he’s reminded only when they part, both heaving soundly. Kyoutani’s still holding Yahaba, keeping him close. Yahaba wants to curl up into a ball and rest against Kyoutani’s chest for a little eternity. He’s staring at him with his heart in his eyes, and he knows it. How could he not? He could tell himself it was only a mild crush before the soaring realization he has it bad struck him. He will regret kissing Kyoutani, once the mist of bliss clears.

Kyoutani has his eyes closed. Yahaba gives himself five seconds of looking at him before he takes his hands away from his waist —they are warm, marked with the shape of Kyoutani’s ribs— and forces Kyoutani’s off his face. He misses them instantly.

“Well. There you have it. All taught.”

There’s silence as the only answer. Yahaba’s staring at the floor in a very Kyoutani-ish behavior.

“You are a really good kisser. No need to fret.”

Nothing. Yahaba’s hands are shaking, his heart is shaking. Kyoutani needs to get the fuck out of his room before Yahaba loses the little control he has left and starts crying in front of him.

“You can go now and confess and what-have you. She’s a lucky girl.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Right. Yeah. Fucking of course. I’m going.”

Yahaba stares up in dread, the anger of Kyoutani’s words sharp and heavy. He grabs his things without a single glance in Yahaba’s direction and leaves with a slam that deafens Yahaba, who keeps staring in bewildered silence at the closed door.

There are no tears that night, but neither sleep nor dreams. Yahaba’s painfully aware of Kyoutani’s absence until the sun rises, and then he finally understands he has fucked up. Big time.

 

*

 

Fuck up is putting it mildly. Their beautifully crafted balance is now all over the place in little, sharp-edged pieces. Yahaba is surprised they are not all bleeding out by the time practice finishes Sunday afternoon. He surely feels one second from fainting, again.

Saying Kyoutani has gotten back to his awful ways would be wrong, because he has gotten worse. He barks and growls and spikes what are obviously not his tosses and falls more times than he lands on his feet. Everyone is walking on the tips of their toes around him, even Yahaba. Especially Yahaba.

Yahaba doesn’t know what to do, because his heart is so heavy he carries it like a ball and a chain tied to his ankle. If he opens his mouth, only silence comes out. If he steps towards Kyoutani, Kyoutani runs away from him. Saturday was a fucking nightmare, and the leftovers of his crying session are still visible in his red-rimmed eyes and the tightness of his skin. Kyoutani hasn’t said a word to him, even less directed a single glare his way. It’s complicated to play when your own ace is obstinately ignoring you.

They cut Sunday’s practice short. It’s pointless to practice when the only thing they are practicing is their patience. Yahaba smiles to the younger ones, waves away Kindaichi’s worries and stays in the gym until everyone has left.

The silence is so deep Yahaba has trouble breathing.

“What the hell did you do?”

Yahaba flinches and turns around, facing Watari. Everyone was supposed to be out. Yahaba was sure everyone had gotten out, leaving him alone in his misery. Watari seems angry, if _I’m going to murder you, you dumbass of a captain_ could be called simply _angry_. Yahaba holds the mop and shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Kyoutani has gone feral!”

“Why would that be my fault?”

Watari squints. Yahaba subtly steps away from him. “Because I know it is. You fucked it up, didn’t you.”

“Fuck _what_ up. Watari, make sense, will you?”

Watari throws his hands into the air. Yahaba can’t recall seeing him so mad. “Shigeru, _I know_.”

A long, long moment of quiet, and then, “Know what.”

Watari points at him. “Who do you think I am? Since you seem to have forgotten, let me remind you: I’m your best friend. Do you really think I wouldn’t notice you crushing on someone, you idiot?”

The ringing in Yahaba’s ears is deafening. “What? I’m not crushing on anything.”

Watari snorts. It’s loud and unhelpful. “Yeah, right. Because you staring at Kyoutani every goddamn second you are in the same room is totally normal behavior.”

Heat crawls up Yahaba’s neck, burning in his cheeks. He shakes his head, but really, he should have known. “I’m not. Of course I’m not. He is— I’m not— Watari, you can’t really believe I— He—” Yahaba’s words die on his mouth. There’s a light in his memories, clearing away the dust of the last weeks. He’s staring at Watari with raging eyes when he says, “You set me up. You used me fainting to set me up with Kyoutani. What the hell.”

Watari shrugs, grins. “And it worked wonderfully, didn’t it. That is, until you. Fucked. It. Up.”

“I didn’t! Look, I might have a crush on him,” Yahaba’s heart stutters at that, “but that doesn’t mean he has one on me. Because he doesn’t.”

Watari is shaking his head before Yahaba finishes talking. “Bullshit.”

“I’m telling you, he _doesn’t_. He likes…” Yahaba swallows the lump in his throat. The well of his goddamn tears should have dried up already. “He likes someone else, okay?”

There’s a frown on Watari’s face at that. “Did he say that?”

“Well. Not exactly, but—”

“Then what the fuck.”

“Look, he asked me to teach him how to… ugh… well, he wanted me to teach him so he could go and confess to whomever he likes and be like, knowledgeable and shit. He didn’t want to get it wrong and get laughed at by this other person. That he likes.”

“You are really dumb, sometimes. I’m amazed. I thought you were smart.”

“I _am!_ ”

“Really? Because honestly, man, Kyoutani has been crushing on you since the match with Karasuno and it’s not only painfully obvious, he more or less told me so on Thursday.”

The ringing is now a shriek. Yahaba can’t hear his own thoughts. “He _what_?”

Watari’s still frowning, still watching him as if Yahaba were radioactive. “I told him he should, you know, try to come out and say how he feels about you which, by the way, _I know_ it’s basically what you feel for him. Might have said something about, um, kissing practice and stuff.”

Yahaba needs a second for his world to right itself. “You are a fucking busybody.”

“You are welcome.”

“No, I’m not! I’m not welcome, Watari! Did you see how he is? I—” Yahaba bites his tongue, Watari’s words, all of them, finally catching up with him. “Wait a second. You’ve known this whole time?” Watari nods. “And… and you are fine with this? You don’t care?”

Watari groans, steps forward and hugs Yahaba so tight their chests become one for a second. “Shigeru, you are my best friend and I love you.”

“That’s it?”

“Is there anything else to it? I don’t care who you fall in love with, as long as you behave like a proper human being and stop fucking around the hard work I’ve put on.”

“Oi. You’ve done nothing.”

Watari’s arms press tighter, let him go. Yahaba’s hands are fists on the mop. “Please, _please_ take yourself, Kyoutani and the rest of this poor team out of all of our miseries and go confess. We won’t survive another practice like this.”

“But… what if he…”

“Dude. He asked you to kiss him. Honestly, how can you be so obtuse?”

Watari smiles at Yahaba’s embarrassed blush. “Shut up.”

*

 

Kyoutani is ghosting him. Of course he is. Yahaba sends him another message anyway, sees the ticks go blue and watches in growing anger how Kyoutani still doesn’t deign to reply. Fine. It’s okay. He can’t run away from Yahaba forever.

Except he can. He can easily leave the team the way he’s done before. He can easily ignore Yahaba as long as he wishes, and he probably will. No matter how many messages Yahaba sends him. Because the most important one hasn’t gotten through his thick skull.

Yahaba’s heart is hammering against his ribs, painfully alive. The grip he has on his phone is strong enough to break it, so strong Yahaba’s hand trembles. He stares at the screen, waiting for it to light up and being disappointed when it doesn’t.

There’s fear mixed with his anger now, and in a rush, he unlocks the damn thing, opens Kyoutani’s contact info and presses the calling button. Yahaba’s about to throw up when he puts the phone against his ear.

One. Two. Three. One more and Yahaba will hang up. No, two more. Three? He’s pressing the warm thing so hard against his cheek there’s sweat everywhere. And then, “What the fuck do you want?”

 _Oh, thank god_. “Where are you?”

“The fuck do you care?”

“Please,” Yahaba says in a rush. “Please, I need to talk to you. You keep running away from me like the jerk you are.”

“ _I am_ the jerk? Fuck you, Yahaba.”

“Okay, but first tell me where you are.”

There’s a beat of silence, one Yahaba’s mind fills with all sorts of awful replies followed by the deafening sound of the call being cut. His heart is so big it’s crushing his lungs.

He doesn’t say a thing, he doesn’t even breathe, when Kyoutany groans, “I’m taking the dog out. By the park near my house.”

Yahaba tries to make a mental map of Kyoutani’s neighborhood. “Okay. I’ll be there in ten. Don’t go.” At Kyoutani’s empty answer, Yahaba adds in a small voice, “Please.”

“Fine. Don’t be late.”

 

*

 

He isn’t late. In fact, Yahaba runs so fast that, by the time he makes it to the park two minutes to spare, he has to lean on a bench before he collapses. There’s sweat running rivers down his back, and when he stares up there Kyoutani is, sitting on the grass with a small dog at his feet. His expression is gloomy and dark. His eyes so intent on Yahaba they are a physical touch.

“Hi,” Yahaba says like the dumbass he is.

“Hey.”

“I… need to catch my breath.”

Kyoutani shrugs and says nothing else. Yahaba closes his eyes, puts both hands on the bench and lets his weight go, his shoulders slumping. There are several muscles burning in his legs and some others that are painfully aware of Yahaba’s tension in his neck. Yahaba’s dizzy with the rush of blood and the fact Kyoutani is sitting there, waiting for him.

Kyoutani hasn’t moved when Yahaba turns around. His eyes are glued to Yahaba’s, and they are shadowed by something Yahaba doesn’t want to put a name on. He doesn’t want to put a name on anything, tonight.

“So?” Kyoutani doesn’t stand when he talks, but the contained energy in his body vibrates in the air. Yahaba’s fingers prickle. The challenge of his rage makes something bloom in his chest. “Whatcha want?”

So many things. Yahaba asks, “Who do you like?”

Kyoutani visibly brittles at that. “ _That’s_ what you ran here for?”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m going home.”

Yahaba steps forward, into his way, so when Kyoutani does stand up they end up close enough for their chests to brush when they breathe. Yahaba wants to scream, lean forward and rest his head on the crook of Kyoutani’s neck. He wants to kick him in the ribs and then kiss him again, just to prove to himself he can.

“Why did you ask me to teach you how to kiss?” Yahaba whispers, hopeful, wry.

“It was dumb. Forget about it.”

“I can’t.”

Kyoutani makes a strangled sound deep in his throat. The dog whimpers at his feet. Yahaba wants to whimper too.

“Who do you like?” Yahaba asks again, and leans forward just a bit, and Kyoutani takes in a shaky breath and holds it in. “Because, you see, I do like someone too.”

“Right.”

“Do you wanna know who it is?”

“Not if you will be a fucking shit about it.” Yahaba smiles. “Look, I didn’t wanna make this weird. It was my fault. Shouldn’t have asked. I will—”

Yahaba might be obtuse, but god, Kyoutani is no better. Yahaba puts his hands on Kyoutani’s shoulders, and Kyoutani shuts up immediately. It’s dusk, but still Yahaba can see the beautiful pink of his blush, painted golden with the late sun.

“Kyoutani, will you let me kiss you again?”

“What? You just said—”

“I know what I said. Fuck, could you listen for a change?”

“I am listening.” But he’s frowning, as if he’s, for the first time, properly understanding what he’s hearing. “You didn’t say who you like.”

“Neither did you.”

“A fucking shit,” Kyoutani groans, and something flutters in Yahaba’s chest, lets go and flies free. Kyoutani’s hands, unsure, cover Yahaba’s hips. His eyes are looking somewhere between their feet. “A bossy, arrogant, too-full-of-himself idiot who never laughs at me when I’m wrong and teaches me with patience and has given me a second home although half of the time I don’t deserve one.”

“You do,” Yahaba says, fiercely. “You deserve a home and to learn without contempt and to feel safe and to lean on someone. You deserve to be you. Kyoutani, lean on me?”

And so Kyoutani does. First through his hands, so warm, tightly pressed on Yahaba’s sides. Then with his forehead against Yahaba’s, a breath of fresh air that takes away from both their chests the weight of being quiet and the fear of rejection. Last is Yahaba who leans on him, lips first, thirsty and needy and happier than he’s ready to acknowledge. There’s still light on the streets, and people walking about, so it’s a short kiss, a welcoming more than anything else. It has nothing to do with the kiss they shared in Yahaba’s room, and it will be a common thing in the future. A simple meeting of mouths that speaks of trust and comfort and maybe, probably, surely, something Yahaba can’t put a name on just yet, but that’s something he knows and cherishes and is holding in his chest with awe and care.

The dog barks, forcing them to step away from each other. Kyoutani’s touch lingers on Yahaba’s side. He’s so red and warm, so close. Yahaba’s smile could light the whole neighborhood, that big it is. He wants to take Kyoutani home and kiss him dumb until sunrise.

Yahaba brushes the hand still on his hip, squeezes Kyoutani’s fingers. Kyoutani’s frowning when he looks up at him, eyes locking. The blush of pleasure gives his eyes a magnificent gleam Yahaba’s pretty sure has just become his favorite sight.

“I am the best teacher, aren’t I?” Yahaba says, smug.

Kyoutani snorts, grabs his hand and drags him out of the park, leading the way while the dog jogs at his other side. Yahaba can see his burning red ears from behind, and it’s adorable.

Kyoutani mutters, “You are,” and Yahaba presses his forehead to Kyoutani’s nape. Because he is as embarrassingly happy as Kyoutani seems to be. And because, finally, finally, _finally_ , he can.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> °˖✧◝(ਠᴥਠ)◜✧˖°
> 
> I want y'all to know, that kiss is haunting my dreams. 
> 
> You can find me [here](https://twitter.com/EllehlEtoile) in case you wanna come at me and scream.


End file.
